Morgana Is Better Than You
by volkslieder
Summary: Arthur doesn't think Morgana can best him in a duel. Morgana intends to prove him wrong. Pre-series fic, set in their teenage years.


**Title:** _Morgana Is Better Than You_  
**Rating:** K+  
**Word count:** 1290 words  
**Characters:** Arthur/Morgana  
**Summary:** Pre-series fic, set in their teenage years. Arthur doesn't think Morgana can best him in a duel. Morgana intends to prove him wrong.  
**Disclaimer:** _Merlin_ is copyright to the BBC. All Rights Reserved. No copyright infringement is intended, and no money is being made.

Thank you so much to **hulamoth** for the beta!

---

Arthur just about falls over laughing when Morgana appears in armour.

"Why Morgana," he says, shoulders shaking with undisguised amusement, "you must be a real knight. I'm not sure I want to fight you anymore. Heir to Camelot and all that." He wouldn't be Arthur if he hid it, thinks Morgana wryly.

The chainmail, the tunic, the breeches – they're not hers, of course. They're Bodwyn's; the squire that keeps valiantly attempting to grow the shadow on his upper lip and spends banquets gazing at her over his watered-down wine. Fortunate she's flat-chested, she supposes. As Arthur likes to point out, if it wasn't for her hair and dress there'd be barely a difference between her and a pageboy. Next time she'll ask why he's even looking at her chest.

"Are you going to fight me or not, Arthur Pendragon?" says Morgana, hand on sword and chin jutting upwards in challenge. "You agreed."

"Hardly seems proper," says Arthur, still grinning.

"Oh yes?" says Morgana. "Why _exactly_ is that?"

He counts off on his fingers. "You're a girl. It'd be unchivalrous of me. And," he adds, almost as an afterthought, "you can't fight." His smile is mocking, daring her to disagree. Morgana's mouth curves into a mocking grin of her own. With a slow hiss of sword against scabbard, she draws it and takes a fighting stance. She pretends her hands aren't shaking.

"Fight me, Arthur. Or I'll tell everyone you're afraid to fight a girl." That gets him. In a second his stance echoes hers.

Parry, thrust, parry, parry, thrust. They both know the stock moves and steps, and they tread through them like a dance. Bodwyn's chainmail is heavy on Morgana's shoulders. She envies Arthur now. He'd claimed his thick tunic was more than enough protection against blunted practice swords. She only put the chainmail on to make a point. To look the part. To protect her against Arthur's hits and make her victory more likely. But now, under the beat of the sun...sweat is trickling into her eyes. She stumbles. Arthur thrusts forward, taking advantage. She recovers just in time to block him, and thrust back.

His blade is at her chest. Hers is at his.

"Yield," they say together.

"Give me a moment to take this off," says Morgana, pushing him away with the flat of her blade. She walks a distance away to do so, her back to Arthur.

"Where did you learn to fight?" asks Arthur, his voice curious. "Not that you're good - not as good as me, of course - but for a girl..." Oh, how tempted Morgana is to spin round and glower. But she won't rise to his baiting. She won't.

"I practice," she says. "Same as you. If I did needlework all day I'd go as empty-headed as the other women."

"Yes," says Arthur. "Yes, I see." But he doesn't, quite, from the sound of his voice.

"I practice at night, sometimes," Morgana says, as she pulls the chain mail over her head. The rough edges of some of the rings catch at her hair, making her wince and pause.

"Shall I help?" says Arthur, his voice suddenly much closer. And more mocking.

"No," she says. He helps her anyway. She lets him.

"You practice at night?" he asks, once he can see her face.

"Yes," she says. "Some nights, I can't sleep." Some nights odd images flurry through her mind; a few familiar, many not. Often she feels her emotions reacting despite her own ignorance. A haunting-eyed boy in a cloak, an older Arthur being given a sword by a boy with messy hair and a red neckerchief. It is terrifying to feel her body shot with fear as if everything she sees is true, to wake up still half asleep and not sure what has happened, what is a dream, and an edge of fear whispering about what might happen yet. When she was younger, her nurse used to say in her lilting accent that Morgana was caught midway between dreams and waking. And that one day she would have to choose between the two.

Not yet. For now, all that matters is taking this irritation of a boy down a notch or two. Or three, if her swordsmanship is up to it.

She turns back to Arthur, only in breeches and a sweaty shirt and tunic now. Standing there so thinly clad, she feels suddenly bare. The sun glints menacingly off Arthur's sword. It's blunted, she tells herself. Don't be so foolish. God's thumbs, he's shorter than you. Arthur sees her hesitating.

"Do you wish to withdraw, my lady Morgana? Let us call it an honourable draw." Cocky grin filling his face, he sheathes his sword, and starts walking towards her, heading back to the castle. As he passes, he can't resist adding, "I would have won, anyway..."

Morgana throws aside the sword and faces him with fists raised. She strikes him straight in the eye and he stumbles back.

"Morgana..." mumbles Arthur, rubbing his face where she struck him. "I'll have a bruise." The thought gives her a certain satisfaction.

"I am just as strong as you, Arthur Pendragon. Say it."

"For now."

"Always."

He stands there, silent.

"Strike me back, Arthur. Return the blow." She still has her fists up, balled before her in fighting stance. Her body is tensed to block, to dodge. But Arthur's pride is wounded.

"I," he says haughtily, "will not strike a woman." His chest swells unsteadily at that - jerkily. He's still holding his face where she hit him. How hard had her blow been? She would have thought he'd be better padded by the roast pork he loves so much. Perhaps it goes straight to fattening his belly, as appearances (and his too-tight tunic) suggested.

"I shall tell your father you ran like a coward from a fight."

"By all means," says Arthur. "And I'll tell him you were running about in boy's breeches. I'm sure he'll be more than impressed. Admirable behaviour for a ward of Camelot."

She goes to punch him again, but he dodges it. "Be gracious, Morgana. I'm trying to prevent your humiliation at my hands." Morgana laughs at that.

"The only one humiliated is the one holding on to his face to keep it together," she says. At that, Arthur swings at her, missing her face by a whisper's breadth.

"I did that on purpose," he says quickly.

"You couldn't bruise me if you tried," she replies. They're circling round each other now, fists up. Suddenly Arthur goes for her. He punches her in the stomach, winding her, and wrestles her to the ground.

"Yield," he says, breathless.

"No," she says. With all her thin-limbed strength she heaves against him. It's no use. She's still pinned to the ground. She's lost. And from the look of grin widening Arthur's face, he doesn't plan to let her forget it.

"I did tell you no girl could beat me," he says. And then, softer and closer, " 'specially not you, Morgana."

She knees him in the groin and punches him in the other eye. Now it's her holding down a struggling Arthur. But only for a moment. He pushes her roughly away and storms off, a slight limp to his step.

God's thumbs, it hurts to return the gear she bested Arthur in. She's sure she'd win against Arthur in a proper duel too. One with swords not fists. One he didn't storm bad-temperedly away from. But Bodwyn's gazing'd only get worse if he thought she _liked_ wearing his tunic. She contents herself with examining her punch-skinned knuckles. She catches Arthur watching her do so during the banquet that night.

She smiles.

He glowers.

Oh, she won alright.

---

_end._


End file.
